


My Path Was Always Leading Me To You

by Tigereye77



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Loose interpretation for alleged Season 7 spoilers.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 05:32:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11411250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigereye77/pseuds/Tigereye77
Summary: As the North prepares to fight the war against the Night King, Jon and Sansa struggle with what their feelings for each other mean and what it will mean for the future.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story will contain loose interpretations for the alleged season 7 spoilers. I originally planned this out as a full-blown Jon/Sansa story, but to be honest, it probably is a more Sansa-centric one. Heavy dose of Jonsa and Jon is definitely in it a lot, but I'll have to be honest, that Sansa might be a little more prominent than Jon. I also flagged it for a Sansa & Brienne friendship since there'll be a heavy dose of that here.

To Jon, Sansa’s musical laugh seemed to cut through the din of the filled Great Hall as the feast commenced. He could not help the smile that tilted up the corners of his mouth nor stop himself from seeking out the bright hue of her hair as she stood some feet away from him talking to Alys Karstark and several other ladies. Sansa seemed to grow brighter than any flame that lit the room with her burnished hair and the pearly grey of her woolen dress that was embroidered with silver threads that twinkled in the light.

Jon could feel his eyes soften as he continued to gaze at his sister, a steady burning in his belly and chest as she laughed again. A slight turn of her head and she caught him looking at her. She offered him her own soft smile, the one that she shared with no one else, where she allowed herself to let the mask of strength slip for a moment so he could still see that some of that sweet girl he knew had not been totally beaten out of her by the monsters she had faced.

_“Your Grace.”_

The tone in Davos’ voice indicated he had been trying to catch Jon’s attention for some time. The young king tore his eyes away from Sansa to look to his right where his most trusted advisor had been seated. A frown marred the older man’s face who looked from Jon to Sansa and back to Jon again. Concern and worry were apparent in the former smuggler’s eyes and he sighed slightly.

“I do not think,” he said in a low voice, “It is wise to occupy yourself so much with your sister’s whereabouts during the feast, your Grace.” 

Jon stiffened and one hand fisted itself. “I wasn’t aware that my concern over my sister’s welfare was something that needed to be monitored or questioned in any way.” Though he spoke harshly and authoritatively, Jon could feel the small coil of guilt warring with the earlier fire he had felt when looking at Sansa.

Davos looked at him carefully and not without a small touch of pity in his eyes. “Concern over her welfare is one thing, Jon, more powerful feelings are quite another.” He inched closer and lowered his voice even more. “I know how you looked at her and how often you seek out her company. It has not gone unnoticed by others, Jon. Questions and rumors will begin to circulate and Lady Stark will bear the brunt of it. Already some of your banner men are suspicious of her due to her previous marriages and their own jealousy of how much she has your ear. Half of them fear her influence and the other half are eager to bed her. I speak not only to protect you, but her as well. I beg you, your Grace, control yourself!”

Davos leaned back and stared pointedly at Jon whose lips had thinned into a tight line. His eyes burned hot and furious, but Davos could also see guilt in those dark orbs. He watched as the King glanced back in Sansa’s direction. She was still talking to the ladies, but this time, Jon’s eyes connected with his sister’s sworn shield, Brienne of Tarth who was never too far away from Sansa’s side, even in a place as innocuous as their own Great Hall. The giantess stared steadily back at the King, her hand flexing on the hilt of her sword. In her pretty blue eyes, Jon could see a warning.

_You may be King, but my loyalty is to Sansa and I will not allow any type of harm to befall her, not even from you._

Jon sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Understood, Davos. I appreciate your concern and your words. I assure you, I will not treat them lightly.”

Davos nodded, satisfied he had said his piece and was still able to keep his head. He knew Jon was a good and honorable man and would never do anything to compromise his sister, no matter what he might feel. Over the last few months, Davos had watched as the younger man seemed to fall more steadily and deeply in love with his half-sister. At first he had dismissed it as the last vestiges of a family clinging to each other and trying to weather the enormous changes and duties thrust upon them. But slowly, and surely, Davos had seen other signs that alarmed him greatly. The sullen Jon Davos knew would never laugh or smile as frequently as he did, especially now with the threat of the White Walkers on their doorstep and the burdens of a kingdom on his shoulder. Yet, in the few months they have been in Winterfell, he had seen the younger man laugh and smile more than all the years he had known him. And he only smiled and laughed when Lady Stark was with him, often when they were simply speaking to each other with no one else involved in the conversation.

Then it was the small things he would do for her, thoughtful things a lover might do such as bringing back a length of expensive cloth from Wintertown so she could make herself a pretty dress, or somehow procuring lemons to make her lemon cakes. Each time Sansa thanked him for these small courtesies, Jon had blushed like some lovelorn boy, embarrassed that the pretty girl he was mooning over noticed him. 

But more telling was Jon’s unwillingness to hear of any man petitioning for Sansa’s hand. It made sense to marry her off to secure an alliance or to strengthen existing ones. Despite the declarations the Northern Houses had made to Jon as King of the North, Davos knew how tenuous some of those oaths were. These were the houses that had turned their backs on the Starks when the time came to fight Ramsey. House Glover, the strongest, most powerful house, had offered their eldest son as a potential husband to Sansa, but Jon had coolly turned them down, saying he would not barter his sister off like others had before to such unhappy results. It had taken much to smooth things over and a sharp reminder from Lady Mormont of Lord Glover’s own cowardice before the battle with the Boltons to ensure the banner man did not take the refusal as an insult and continued to support the King.

Then Davos knew, and worse, he suspected at least Lady Mormont might have thought the same as she turned thoughtful, contemplating eyes towards Jon.

At first he was horrified and wondered if Jon’s bastard blood had tainted him in some way, but he knew Jon Snow as a good man. That was why Davos had suggested this feast and inviting some of their banner men and their women folk to stay at Winterfell for several weeks. Not only would it give them time to plan for the winter and threat of the White Walkers, among the other thousand and one issues facing the North, but Davos had thought if other eligible women were around perhaps Jon would not be so enamored with his sister. The lack of women at Winterfell had to be the reason a good man like the Jon Snow he knew could be falling in love with his own sister. That there simply wasn’t another woman around, and Lady Stark was extremely beautiful, and the fact Jon hadn’t had a woman in a while must be the reasons he would be drawn to her. Perhaps some other comely woman would catch his eye and this thing with Sansa would prove to be only a passing fancy.

However, that was not the case. Davos was even excited to see Alys Karstark with her vague resemblance to Lady Stark. Alys was slightly shorter and heavier than the tall, willowy Stark girl, and her face was not as fair, but she had a firm, curvaceous body and a somewhat pretty face. She also had a fall of long, auburn hair, not quite as bright and silky as Sansa’s, but still, it was close. She was also fierce and daring in her words and actions, much like the feisty Lady Mormont. He heard some Northerners liken her to Jon’s other sister, Arya whom he loved greatly, and even Tormund mentioned that she reminded him a little of Jon’s dead lover, Ygritte. All seemed to indicate a woman who would capture the King’s interest.

However, that did not happen. He was perfectly polite when he met Lady Alys and courteous when they crossed paths, but Davos could see he had as much interest in the other woman as he did in Lord Karstark, perhaps less since Karstark was at least offering men in the fight with the Others and that led to the two men speaking more than passing greetings like Jon did with Alys.

While Davos had not intended to speak to Jon about his inappropriate affections, when he saw him gazing at Sansa across the roomful of his banner men, some watching him, a few perhaps a little too closely, he had to speak. Especially when he saw the calculating eyes of Petyr Baelish assessing the soft smile of the King as he gazed upon his sister.

No something had to be said and he hoped to the Gods that Jon would heed his advice.

With Davos’ words burning in his ears and Brienne’s glare boring into his eyes, the flicker of guilt Jon had felt earlier grew and he could feel it burning through his body. How depraved and sick must he be for even looking at Sansa in any way that was not brotherly, let alone some of the thoughts he had of her in those dark moments when he was alone and his hand was wrapped tight around his cock.

He heard her laugh again and even as nausea over his earlier thoughts rose within him, he could feel his himself harden and his cock twitch, almost as if it responded to her voice, like a dog answering the call of his master.

Jon stood abruptly, happy his tunic and the cloak he wore falling over the front of his body to hide his shame. “I need air,” he mumbled to Davos before he turned abruptly away and strode out of the Great Hall.

His feet carried him blindly through the halls of Winterfell until he found himself outside on the battlements. It was cold, but his cloak and the fire that came with his shame and lust kept him warm. Snow fell lazily down on him, sprinkling white flakes in his dark curls and touching his heated skin to only melt quickly.

Jon did not know when these thoughts and feelings for Sansa began. They were never close as children, different interests and Lady Catelyn ensuring their separation. And if he was pressed, he would admit that he barely thought of Sansa during the years they were separated, definitely less than he did of Robb or Arya. But that moment, when he saw her standing in the yard of Castle Black, when he thought he would never feel anything ever again after his resurrection, something inside of him sparked. A warmth, a flame was ignited by the sight of her and it had grown steadily since.

He would feel this need to seek her out, to assure himself of her safety. He had this urge to lean into her to smell the sweet scent of her hair and skin. And his lips burned each time he drew back from a sweet chaste kiss placed on her forehead or her cheek. 

No one could get under his skin like Sansa. Their arguments were fiercer, louder than any he has had with anyone else. But no one could also make him laugh and smile as she did, or soothe and comfort him in those moments when he thought of the enormity of what he had to do as the King of the North and the threat of the Others. And no one has or ever could make his blood burn and his heart sing with a look or a touch.

He knew what he was feeling. He knew it was depraved and he thought he could hide it, relieving his urges in his chambers with hard strokes of his hand, but Davos words rang in his ears. He had not been as successful as he thought he was in hiding his feelings and something would need to be done.

But what? He couldn’t simply kill his feelings or his thoughts. The spent seed on his hands every day, sometimes several times of day, showed him how impossible that was. Send Sansa away? Never. All she wanted was to be home and safe and he would slit his own throat before he would jeopardize her happiness and security.

That only meant him leaving and soon that would happen as they amass their forces to meet the threat from the North. He would only have to hold on until then, perhaps avoid Sansa. Maybe if they had less contact with each other-

“There you are!”

Jon closed his eyes briefly and silently cursed the Gods who obviously decided to torment Jon Snow for all his days by making him fall in love with his sister and then letting him have the ability to conjure her up just by thinking of her.

“Why did you leave the feast so abruptly? Are you feeling well?”

The wind had picked up and the snow began to fall more heavily. Jon schooled his features into their usual sullen lines so she couldn’t see how a part of him was so happy to see her, and the other so terrified. He turned to her to assure her he was well, but the words changed to something else when he saw her.

“Are you daft, Sansa?” He barked out suddenly. “You’ll catch your death of cold!” 

Sansa had no cloak, only the thin grey woolen dress she had worn to the feast. The strong winds blew her skirts wildly and whipped the loose strands of her long, red hair around her face. She was shivering and Jon could already see her lips paling with cold. He tried to ignore the fact that the cold had also hardened the nipples of her breasts into sharp little points that pressed through the thin material of her dress.

“I didn’t realize it would be so-, so cold out here.” Her teeth chattered and she crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to warm herself and blessedly covering those perky teats.

Jon muttered a curse and shrugged off his cloak to wrap it snuggly around her. His actions drew her closer and though they were of the same height and possibly Sansa slightly taller than he, she seemed to look up at him from lowered lashes. 

“Jon, now you will freeze,” she murmured, her words coming out in puffs of white in the cold, but all he could feel was the moist heat of the words as they brushed his face.

“I feel warm enough,” he replied softly as his hands rubbed her upper arms through his cloak, warming her up.

“Jon, what’s wrong? Why did you leave the feast?” she asked, looking him in the eye, a small flicker of worry in her blue ones. “You left so quickly. Did you feel ill?”

Had anyone looked at him with so much concern for his well-being? A woman who cared if he was ill, who made every piece of clothing he wore, even his small clothes, who took care to fuss over his wounds and to make certain he ate well and his hair and beard were trimmed neatly. Jon could not think of ever being so cared and looked after before. 

It was not a sentiment men expressed and the women in his life had been so limited. It was another reason he was so drawn to Sansa, the love and caring she offered to him, something he had not experienced before from a woman. Lady Catelyn never showed it, Arya was too young and the type of woman Ygritte was and the situation they found themselves in did not present such opportunities even if the wildling was inclined to show them, which Jon, if he was honest, likely would not have. No, it’s only been Sansa who has ever done so and Jon never realized how starved for that type of affection he has been.

“I’m fine,” he said in a slightly strangled voice. “It was just feeling close in the Hall. I wanted some air.” He hesitated before adding, “And I needed to be away from some people.”

He was referring to Davos’ words and Sansa herself, the temptation he was finding harder and harder to resist, but she took his words to mean something else.

She nodded in understanding. “Some of the banner men can be bores, especially after they’ve been in their cups.” She shivered slightly and drew his cloak closer around her. Automatically Jon’s arm came up to draw her closer to him to help warm her. He nearly groaned aloud as she snuggled into his side and laid her head on his shoulder with a small, sad sigh.

Something in how she said her words and the sigh set off alarm bells in Jon’s head. Over the moons, just as he had reveled in her smiles and scent, he also had become quite attuned to the small inflections in her voice and the colors in her tone.

“Was there something else?” He asked quietly, sensing a disquiet about her.

Sansa sighed again. She began in a low voice, “Sometimes, in close quarters, around all those men…” Her voice trailed off and he could feel her struggle with her words. “I just feel…scared. Unsafe. When they try to touch me, even just to dance. I…I feel as if I can’t breath and fear...” She choked slightly on her words as if she was experiencing something frightening in that moment and she buried her face into the crook of his neck.

Jon’s arms came around her and he hugged her fiercely to him. “I will never, NEVER let anyone touch you again without you wishing it. Tell me, did someone try anything? Behave improperly towards you? Say something? Because if they did, I’ll have their heads.”

The words were all the more fierce and frightening for the low, calm and measured way he said them. Jon could feel the anger clawing in his chest at the thought of someone threatening or frightening Sansa, and with him likely only steps away.

Sansa shook her head, her face still buried in his neck. “No,” she said, her voice muffled. “No one.” She let out a watery laugh and pulled back to look in his face. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright with unshed tears, but Jon said nothing. “I don’t think they would dare with Brienne next to me and you and Ghost glaring at them.” Her face fell into sad lines. “He still haunts me. It’s at odd moments that I’ll remember something and I’ll feel I’m back there again at his mercy. I hate that he has that power over me where sometimes I can’t even feel safe in my own home and with my own people.”

“What can I do, Sansa? How can I make this right?” Jon asked in a desperate voice.

She gave him one of her sad smiles, the ones he hated to see and pressed her forehead to his. “You’re doing everything right now that I need. I know I once told you no one could protect anybody, Jon, but know this, you make me feel safe. And you’re the only man who’s touch doesn’t make me want to crawl away in fear and disgust. You do so much for me in so many ways and I don’t always stop to thank you for it.” She pulled back to look at him and he missed the warmth of her skin immediately. “I’m sorry about that. I do appreciate it. I do see it and I do love you for it.”

Jon gazed softly at her and his hands came up to frame her face. “You don’t have to thank me for something you deserve to have. You deserve to be loved and cared for. To have happiness and not be afraid. And it is my duty and pleasure to give it to you, Sansa.”

Sansa sighed and placed her head on his shoulder again. “When we were up here some moons ago you said we needed to trust each other. I wasn’t certain if I was capable of that ever again. But Jon, know there’s no one else in the world I trust more than you.”

He simply drew her closer and they stared out into the night as the snow continued to fall around them.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of smoke, pine and man tickled Sansa’s nose as she slowly woke.

_Jon_ , her mind told her and she slowly opened her eyes to stare at the underside of the canopy that stretched over her bed. Fingers gripping the top edge of the fur that covered her brushed against wool and the source of the scent: Jon’s cloak was lying on top of her.

Last night, after he had escorted her to her chambers, Sansa had neglected to return the borrowed cloak to him. She had intended to give it back to him today, but last night, for some reason, she had taken the covering to bed with her. The scent had comforted her, and provided her with her most peaceful night of sleep in a long time.

Sansa sat up and lightly ran her fingers over the dark wool. She had made the cloak herself. It was a ceremonial cloak, worn to events but it was still warm and fine. The state of Jon’s clothing was deplorable and among her many other duties in rebuilding Winterfell, she made sure he had a wardrobe worthy of a king. The cloak was a midnight color, died from a special blend of berries and roots, a recipe the Starks had used for generations to get the various shades of blues that signified their house. The wool that was used was the finest she could get her hands on and she made sure it was doubled layered with a thicker, coarser wool between the finer ones. It was heavy and rich in feel, but Jon wore it with ease and distinction. 

Despite the destruction the Boltons wrought on her family’s possessions, they were able to recover a few things. She had some of her mother’s jewelry, a few tokens from her childhood. Then she had found it wedged between the cracks in the slots of her parents’ bed, the bed she currently was in, a silver direwolf cloak clasp. Sansa remembered how her father had lost it, annoying her mother greatly. They had searched everywhere for it, but it was never found until she and Jon had retaken Winterfell. 

There was a thorough cleaning in all of the usable chambers and much that still carried the stench of the Boltons had been burned. It was when the Lord’s Chambers were being cleaned and the great bed dismantled and each piece scrubbed clean that the clasp was found wedge between two slots in the bed frame. A maid had brought to her the tarnished, hunk of silver that weighed heavily in her hand. With her own fingers, she had cleaned it until it gleamed and when Jon’s cloak was finished, she had presented it to him with a pleased smile. His reaction had both touched and embarrassed her. The soft, stunned look and the low timbre of his voice as he thanked her had brought a flush to her cheeks. She had brushed aside his gratitude saying it was only right he had something worthy of a king, but that look he gave her had caused her face to heat and she could only smile and turn away from those bottomless eyes.

Sansa rose from her bed and drew the cloak around her. She didn’t realize she was deeply inhaling the scent of him as she made her way over to the window which looked out over the training yard. Sansa was an early riser, but today she had slept a little later than usual, her maid not even coming in to wake her. She could already hear the murmur of voices and the clang of practice swords as Jon trained his men. She peered out below.

Jon was demonstrating several maneuvers with a Glover man as his practice partner. She watched as he moved with ease and grace and had to smile. For a man so hopeless at dancing, he was incredibly fluid in battle. She could see the other men watching him with rapt attention, taking in every minute move he made, every word he uttered. These men admired him greatly, so much different from a few months ago when they had gone a begging to their bannermen only to be insulted and turned away, Sansa herself bearing the brunt of it.

And then to have them declare Jon king, well, she had to admit that a small part of her did feel annoyed with that. Afterall, her actions had won the battle, Jon’s had nearly lost it. But Sansa was also a realist. The North would never follow a woman, at least not a woman whom they regarded suspiciously. A Lannister. A Bolton. 

Her jaw tightened at these memories. Nevermind how she was put into those positions with no one to help her. A woman was never blameless, if all else failed, she should have killed herself. Death was more honorable.

Sansa did not subscribe to that way of thinking. Living, and living happily as her enemies suffered and died was much more preferable.

Her eyes went to some of the lords who were also watching the training. Glover. Cerwyn. Mormont. Her brows drew in as she regarded them. They were still suspicious of her and she felt nothing but contempt for them. They were quite happy to have her married to Ramsey Bolton and let him take out his depraved needs on her. What better way to protect their own daughters and womenfolk? As they sit there judging her, it was her body that protected them from that monster. Their loyalty was fleeting and she could tell while they declared for Jon, the Starks could not completely rely on them. How staunchly would they stand behind them when trouble rose again? Sansa would love nothing more than to banish these families from the North, but they needed them.

She would find a way to win them over and secure their support as best possible. She and Jon needed them and if half of what Jon told her about The Others was true, they would need them more than ever soon.

At that moment, she felt eyes on her and looked down. Jon was staring up at her and when their eyes locked he waved a hand in greeting. Sansa blushed, wondering what she must look like, her hair tousled and face flushed and puffy from sleep, still wrapped in his cloak. She smiled back at him and gave a small wave of acknowledgment before withdrawing from the window.

Sansa’s day was full and she had tarried in bed too long. She washed her face and began to brush and braid her hair, slightly annoyed her maid had failed to wake her sooner.

“Milady?” a tentative voice called out from the other side of her door.

“Enter.”

Her lady’s maid, Mina, a sweet Northern girl from Wintertown came in with a tray.

“The King told us not to disturb you until later, but I know today is your weekly trip to Wintertown, milady,” Mina chattered as she set the tray on a table. It was filled with a light meal of bread, preserves and tea.

“The King told you to let me sleep late?” Sansa asked in surprise.

Mina nodded. “Oh yes! He said you’ve been working too hard and not to disturb you as you deserved some more sleep.”

Sansa smiled and shook her head at Jon’s sweet gesture, though she sighed internally. He meant well, but it would not look good for her to laze about in bed as Jon rose early and worked hard. They would think her too grand a lady to do more than sit and look pretty. She sat down before the tray and paused when she saw a small brown jar. She lifted the lid and sighed when she saw its contents. She held the jar up at Mina.

“The King?”

Mina grinned broadly. “I know you said we must be careful with the honey and I told the King, but he said if anyone deserved to have honey with their tea, it is the Lady of Winterfell.”

Sansa sighed and was about to hand it over to her maid to take back to the kitchens, but Mina stopped her. “Please, milady. I know he would be sad if you don’t use it. And I agree with him. You deserve the honey.”

This was why Sansa loved the small folk and not the lords. While she was Ramsey’s prisoner, it was these people, the aged, the weak, the common folk who tried to protect her in their own ways. The old woman who tried to help her and was flayed for her efforts. The maid who made sure she had moon tea to prevent Ramsey’s seed from taking root. The serving boy who passed her salves to tend to her wounds. It was they who remembered. It was the small folk who were the true North, not the Manderlys, the Glovers and the Mormonts. 

She loved her people fiercely and would protect and help them anyway she can. Since she and Jon retook Winterfell, while she had to attend to the egos and demands of the bloated lords, she had made sure they smallfolk were not neglected. She distributed food, made clothes and whenever possible, visited them, much to Jon’s great concern.

_“It’s not safe for you to be wandering around the countryside, Sansa!” he had argued._

_“These people suffered the worse under the Boltons. They need to be assured the Starks are back in Winterfell and that those horrors are over, Jon. Please. They were the only ones who tried to help me during my time with Ramsey. Not the Glovers. Not the Mormonts. Not the Cerwyns. The people. I owe them.”_

_His eyes had softened then, like they always seemed to do around her and another look, one she could not identified came into them._

_“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “But you never go alone. You’ll be accompanied by at least four men of my choosing. When Brienne comes back, you must take her and Pod and whoever she decides is necessary. There are still Bolton supporters around the countryside and I’ll have nothing happen to you now that I have you back.”_

“It would please him so if you just have the honey.”

Mina’s voice brought her back from her musings and Sansa nodded her head. Strange, she thought as she spooned a small amount of the golden liquid into her tea, how Jon always seems to be trying to compensate for something with her, as though he owed her something. In her eyes, he was the one person who owed her nothing. If anything, it was she who was indebted to Jon.

Sansa finished her meal quickly and dressed in a plain gray dress and her dark cloak. As she made her way to the stables, she paused in the training yard to watch Jon a moment longer. He saw her and excused himself to speak with her.

“Good morning, Sansa,” Jon rumbled out, slightly out of breath from his sparring session with another man. He glanced at her outfit and frowned. “Wintertown?”

Sansa swallowed a sigh. They had this conversation every week. He knew very well she went to Wintertown on this day. A part of her wondered if he had let her sleep in so it would be too late to make the trip. “Yes, Jon,” she replied pleasantly, her voice devoid of any annoyance she was feeling. “I’m taking some woolens that my ladies and I have made for the children.” 

“Is it not too late to be venturing out?” Jon asked hopefully, confirming her suspicions.

“Not so late,” she replied, keeping her voice pleasantly pitched. “I slept a little late, but there is plenty of daylight for a trip there and back.” She gave him a look that indicated she was wise to his ploy.

Jon gave a grunt and looked up in the sky. “Don’t tarry too long, Sansa. A storm is coming.”

“If a storm hits, I will stay in Wintertown,” she promised, though she was adept as reading the weather as Jon and knew the storm was many hours off.

He escorted her to the stables and helped her onto her saddled mare. After strict and sharp instructions to her guards, which Brienne listened to graciously and patiently for he did this every week, Sansa and her party departed with a wave and a promise to be back soon.

Honestly, Jon could be worse than a mother hen at times.

The trip to Wintertown, as always, was uneventful. With the help of some townswomen, Sansa distributed the warm clothing and the loaves of bread the kitchens in Winterfell had baked that morning. Then she listened to concerns the townspeople had and checked on the progression of the preparation for the Long Night. Since their return, Jon had made sure that the towns were aware of the danger from the Others and instructed them on preparations: have patrols, report immediately to their Lord or Winterfell of any signs of trouble, lay in provisions and have a pack ready to grab at a moment’s notice if they needed to flee. Keep a fire burning. Most of these things the people were doing in preparation for winter any way and Sansa knew that many did not believe Jon’s story of the Others. So it fell to Sansa and her weekly visit to remind them of the danger and ensure they were ready should the unthinkable happen.

She visited several establishments and ended her trip with a visit to the apothecary. Old Martyn was known to all, including the inhabitants of Winterfell. While Winterfell had its own maester, the inhabitants in town made due with Old Martyn who was as skilled as any maester Sansa had known. Acerbic, wrinkled, with knobby hands that could be as gentle as a mother with her newborn, Old Martyn did not suffer fools gladly and had less patience for lords and ladies, except for the Starks. He had loved Ned and Catelyn and was fond of their children.

Old Martyn had a son, Young Martyn, who was as clever and as skilled as his father, but less sharp-tongued. Even at five and twenty he still had the appearance of a gangly youth and often became tongue-tied around Sansa. Except when he talked about his favorite topic.

Young Martyn was a master at alchemy. Witchcraft some would call it, but Sansa knew it was nothing more than understanding how to combine various things together, much like formulating the dye that colored their clothes or putting together a lemon cake. 

A few weeks ago, while Old Martyn was out seeing to a father who had fallen and hurt his leg, Sansa had visited Young Martyn at his father’s establishment. He had been so shy and embarrassed that Sansa had searched frantically for some way to put him at ease and had finally asked what he was working on.

Young Martyn blossomed in front of her as he described in bewildering terms, from what Sansa could follow, a process of trying to extract saltpeter from some dirt and then mixing it with some other substances into a black powder.

“And what will this substance you make do?” Sansa had asked politely, somewhat bored by Young Martyn’s talk.

“Here, I’ll show you, milady,” he replied eagerly and moved past her to go through another room.

Sansa hesitated and glanced out the window at the street where her guards waited for her. She had been alone in the room with Martyn, but the front door had been open and it took only a single cry to bring them inside. But now Martyn was expecting her to follow him deeper into his home.

Surely there was nothing to fear from Young Martyn?

But these days, Sansa has learned to trust few people and fear many things. She had a small dagger concealed in the sleeve of her dress. No one knew she carried it with her all the time. A lesson she had learned over the years. Its presence was a comfort to her and she let it slip out a little, so she would be able to draw it and defend herself in a second if need be.

Sansa cautiously went into the room Young Martyn had disappeared into and found it empty. It was the kitchen and another door at the other end was open and she could see it led out into a small yard in the back. Slowly she moved forward and stepped outside. Young Martyn was bending over a small pile of the black powder, a rotted squash next to it. He tipped a small amount into a line leading away from the pile and looked up at Sansa.

“Don’t come any closer, milady, that should be a good distance to not get splattered.”

“Splattered? Young Martyn, what are you doing?” Sansa has in a bewildered voice.

He grinned at her and then lit the line of the black substance with a torch he had nearby. He scampered over to Sansa’s side as she watched the black powder catch, spark, and streak in a line of sputtering fire towards the squash. The fire ignited the small pile Martyn had made and there was a loud bang as the squash exploded. Sansa let out a small shriek.

Martyn whooped as Sansa stared open mouthed at what had happened before her. Vaguely she heard pounding feet tearing through the house and suddenly Brienne was beside her, glaring at a startled Young Martyn as Pod held his sword to the other man’s neck.

“Lady Stark!” Brienne cried out. “What was that noise? Are you okay?”

Slowly, Sansa turned to look at Brienne. She nodded vaguely. “What? Oh yes. I’m fine, Brienne. Martyn was just showing me something.”

Brienne regarded her skeptically and nodded curtly at Pod to release Young Martyn who gulped. “I’m sorry, milady. I didn’t mean to cause you any distress.”

“You didn’t, Martyn,” she assured him as she looked the remains of the squash. “You only used a small amount. I assume if you use more, the effects would be greater?”

“The most I tried was several handfuls and it was out in a field. I left a sizable whole in the ground.” Martyn’s nervousness over the sword at his throat had disappeared as he was once more on his favorite thing to talk about.

“How hard is it to make this-, this-, is there a name for it?”

“It’s hard extracting all the ingredients needed, milady, but once you have that, it’s not too hard to make it. I’ve only done a little here and there. I just call it Black Powder.”

“How long would it take you to make more?” Sansa asked briskly. “What are the ingredients you need and what is the best way to procure them?”

“Milady?”

Sansa turned to him with her Tully blue eyes that many say only showed kindness and compassion. Right now, they were hard as ice and twice as calculating. “A list, Young Martyn. Give me a list and I’ll make sure you have what you need to make more Black Powder. I want as much of it as you can make.”

“But, what for?” Young Martyn was bewildered. “It’s just a trick to amuse people.”

“No,” Sansa murmured. “It’s going to help us fight a war.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Hello Young Martyn,” Sansa said as she entered the apothecary. “Did you receive what you needed?”

Young Martyn stood up from the counter and bowed clumsily at Sansa. “Yes, milady. It arrived three days ago and I’ve begun the process. I have enough to make at least two or three barrels.”

“Is it safe to store it that way?”

Young Martyn nodded. “Just keep it away from fire, heat and don’t let it get wet or it’ll be useless. I’ve given thought to what you told me about the White Walkers and how best to utilize the Black Powder to fight them.”

Sansa had not been idle. She had sought out everyone around them and questioned them about the White Walkers and what they knew, which was precious little. She knew they could be killed by Valyrian steel, dragonglass and fire. They could raise the dead to fight by their side and that they came in relentless waves.

The Black Powder, while more controllable than Wild Fire, also did not have its capacity to burn its victims. It blew them apart. It only acted in a single burst and did not have the consuming effects of fire. Unless it was used in large quantities or could be widely dispersed in some ways, it wouldn’t do much to stop the White Walkers, especially considering they attacked in waves.

“It’s best to gather as many as possible in one spot and then set off the powder.”

“But it would also destroy what was in that spot,” Sansa replied.

Young Martyn nodded. “But it would be the most effective way to take out the greatest number. Otherwise we would have to use small amounts that would only cause damage in pockets, instead of stopping a wave. “

Sansa nodded thoughtfully. She had been excited by the discovery of the Black Powder and while it will be useful, it wouldn’t be the answer to their problems.

“How would we use the smaller amounts?”

“Maybe hidden in spots? Or conveyed in some container?”

Sansa nodded again thoughtfully. “Continue working on producing the powder. Let me know if you need more supplies. I will let you know where to deliver the finished barrels.”

Young Martyn bowed his head in acknowledgement and Sansa took her leave. Her party left Wintertown not long after that and she was quiet the entire way, mulling over what could be done with the Black Powder.

She was still silent when they made it back to Winterfell and dismounted from her horse and made some vague noise at Brienne. Still in her distracted state she nodded absently at those she passed as she made her way to her rooms. Sansa dismissed Mina, telling her to just ask cook to prepare a light supper tray for her as she would be eating in her chambers.

She changed her boots for light slippers and sat before her fire in a chair, gazing at the flames as though they could provide her with answers.

She did not know how much time had passed when there was a knock on her door. Thinking it was only Mina with her supper tray she bade the girl to enter. Not turning her gaze from the fire she simply said, “Just set the tray down and go to bed, Mina, I won’t need you anymore tonight.”

“Am I not to get my supper then?”

Sansa jerked her gaze up at the rough masculine voice and saw Jon standing beside her chair, laden with a tray that had far too much for a light supper and a slight smile on his face.

“Jon,” she blinked, still not fully out of her reverie. “I’m sorry, I thought you were Mina. Why aren’t you having your supper in the Great Hall?”

“When Mina told me you were taking a tray in your room, I thought I join you. Much more preferable than eating with those boring men I’ve spent all day with. May I join you?”

Sansa smiled slightly and gestured to the chair opposite her. “Of course.” She eyed the tray as Jon set it down. It was laden with meat, cheese and bread. Two tankards of ale and a small dish with a cloth over it completed the tray. “That is not the light supper I asked Cook to prepare.”

“Broth and bread,” Jon snorted. “That’s not enough to keep a bird alive, Sansa.” He paused when he saw her stiffen. “What? What did I say?”

“It’s nothing, Jon,” she murmured, her gaze going towards the fire.

His hand on her chin stopped her and gently, he turned her face towards his. “Sansa,” he said in a low voice. “What is it?”

The warmth in his voice and the gentle touch of his fingers on her face made Sansa want to squirm in her chair. She licked her lips and saw his gaze flicker down towards the movement, but his eyes immediately flickered back up to hers and she resisted the urge to lick her lips again to see if his eyes would stray towards them again.

“A nickname I was given in Kings Landing,” she said in a low voice. His fingers slipped from her face and she suddenly felt cold with the loss of contact. “Little Bird, made to sing the songs they wanted me to sing.” Her face flushed and her throat started to close, but she would not cry. She had no more tears to shed and if she had, she would not shed them for the past. “They made me sign songs of how Father, Robb, our family were traitors. How I much I loved Joffrey. And I sang them, Jon. I sang them.”

“Oh sweetling,” he murmured as he leaned forward to touch his forehead to hers and she could feel the warmth rushing through her body again. “You sang them to survive. There’s no shame in that.”

“Isn’t there?” she snapped, jerking herself away from Jon. “Isn’t that what our Northern Lords and Ladies feel? That it is far more noble to be dead than to have survived. That I’m less because I am alive.”

Anger flared in Jon’s eyes and in the past, Sansa would have shrank from it, but she was no longer that Sansa. She tilted her chin forward and met his anger head on.

But she was wrong for that anger was not directed at her. “Those Northern Lords are craven shits that aren’t worth the mud on your boots, Sansa,” he growled in response. “If they were true men, they would have helped you. They would have rebelled against the Boltons.”

While she thrilled at Jon’s words, Sansa sighed and sank back into her chair. “They’re men, Jon. Frightened and embarrassed by their actions. It’s easier for them to turn their noses up at me in disdain than to admit their own failings. And we need them.”

“I want to tell the whole lot to take a flying leap,” Jon grumbled as he stood up and rested an arm against the mantle of her fireplace.

Sansa’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Well, yes, I would too, but unfortunately, we cannot.” She eyed the tense line of his shoulders and knew something else was bothering him. “Did someone say something to you about me today?”

Jon went rigid and Sansa knew she was right. She sighed. “What did they say, Jon?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said gruffly as he picked up a poker and began to stab at the fire, causing it to blaze up and crackle.

“Jon.”

He would not tell her what Glover had said today after his training session with some of the men. Earlier, when he had glanced up at Sansa’ chamber window, to see her watching him, her hair loose and mussed with a rosy flush to her cheek, Jon had caught his breath at the lovely slight and could feel the stirrings of longing and desire. Is that what she looked like when she woke? How would it be to wake up to such a vision each morning? He had raised a hand in greeting and when he turned his eyes from the window, saw Glover watching him closely.

Later, the older man had cornered Jon as the young king was wiping the sweat from his brow with a linen and straightening his clothing. The other men were continuing with their exercises.

“A word, your Grace,” Glover had rumbled out respectfully, though Jon suspected what the man was about to say next was far from respectful.

Jon had nodded and led Glover away from the rest until they were in a quiet corner of the yard, the clang of practice swords a muted sound as Jon turned expectantly to the Lord of Deepwood Motte.

“I would like to speak to you about Lady Sansa.”

“You mean, Lady Stark,” Jon corrected him. “She is the Lady of Winterfell.”

Glover’s face stilled but he tilted his head. “Lady Stark. Yes, you’ve made it quite clear that Winterfell is hers. Which also means it is time you consider wedding her to another house so a trusted ally could be installed in the Winterfell seat.”

Jon stilled and eyed Glover sharply. “Are you saying I should not trust my sister?”

“I am saying her history has made her allegiances suspect,” Glover replied stiffly. “She denounced your brother and father as traitors. She’s been in league with Lannisters, Boltons and that Baeylish-“

“She was a prisoner of those men!” Jon snarled out as he stepped towards Glover. 

“Married to two of them.”

“Forced into marriage.”

“She agreed to the Bolton marriage,” Glover noted.

“Aye, to come back home, not knowing what kind of monster Ramsey Snow was.” Jon was furious. He stepped even closer to Glover and though the other man was a head taller, he retreated slightly, more than a little intimidated by the anger radiating off the young king.

“But you knew,” Jon continued in a low, menacing voice. “You knew what Ramsey was and what he did. You knew what he did to Sansa every night! But you did nothing. Then, when we came to ask for your help, you turned us away but come crawling when all is safe now. Who is the person I should trust? My sister who has managed to survive monsters and defeat them, or the men who didn’t even try to fight?”

Glover’s face flushed in anger and he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He shook and blustered, but beneath it all, Jon could see it: shame. Every word he said was true and Glover, good man that he truly was, knew that. He could not free himself of his suspicions regarding Sansa, but he knew he was not as blameless as he would like to be.

“I’ll hear no more word out of you regarding my sister and especially about wedding her to another. She’s been used and abused by men, traded like some prize horse. She is noone’s prize nor chattel to be bartered and traded. Do I make myself clear on this Lord Glover?”

“Perfectly,” Glover gritted out. “I apologize for overstepping.”

“You need to apologize to Lady Stark,” Jon countered. “It is her you’ve insulted.” His eyes darkened. “I do not take well to insults hurled at my sister.”

Glover gave a sharp nod and then bowed slightly, taking leave of Jon.

Jon watched Glover stride away and it wasn’t until the other man was out of sight that he allowed his shoulders to relax slightly. He knew many of the Northern lords either distrusted Sansa or wanted her. She inspired lust, greed and suspicion, dangerous feelings to have in men who were to be his allies. Even Davos had mentioned these feelings the other men had regarding her and had tentatively suggested that perhaps it might be best to send Sansa away for everyone’s protection, including hers. The look Jon had given Davos silenced his trusted advisor and he never mentioned the possibility again, but after last night, he knew Davos suspected Jon’s attachment to Sansa went beyond just familial feelings. 

“Jon? What was said to you today about me?”

He came out of his musings and saw Sansa watching him from her chair. The firelight warmed her face, giving her porcelain skin a rosy glow and turning her hair into a river of molten copper. Jon felt his mouth go dry and his gut clench. He shook his head slightly to clear it of the inappropriate thoughts that began to materialize there.

“Talk of weddings,” he finally replied. It wasn’t a complete lie and Sansa knew Jon was receiving offers for her hand in marriage.

Sansa nodded. “I see.” She paused. “Do you want me to make a match?”

“Sansa, we’ve been through this a thousand times,” Jon sighed as he came down to kneel in front of her chair. His hands went to cover the ones she held in her lap. “You will only marry when you want to and not a moment sooner. No one will ever force you into another marriage. I promise.”

“Jon, remember what I said about promises-“

“I’m not like the others, Sansa,” Jon interrupted her, his voice low and serious. “I swear I will keep my promises to you. I would rather die first before I break a promise to you.”

She reached out a hand to cup his face. “Don’t,” she murmured. “Don’t say things like that. I can’t bear to think of you-“ She swallowed hard. “If you swear not to break a promise to me, then promise me you will never leave me alone. I don’t know if I can bear that again.”

Jon turned his head to kiss the palm lying against his face. “I promise, Sansa. I will never abandon you.”


	4. Chapter 4

She felt a tingle from where he kissed her palm all the way up her arm. Slowly, Sansa drew her hand back and Jon stepped away from her, breaking that exciting but still frightening bit of intimacy they had momentarily experienced. Jon moved back to the fire, unnecessarily throwing another log onto it as Sansa began to serve them the food he had brought.

Those small actions seemed to bring them back to normalcy and they talked about other matters. She told him her visit to Wintertown and her concerns about the lack of urgency the small folk had in taking the threat of the White Walkers seriously. Jon nodded, knowing how hard it was for people to accept the story he told. Most of the Northern Lords didn’t believe him and it didn’t help that the Wildlings were the only ones who could support his claims.

He looked at Sansa curiously. “Why do you believe me so easily when everyone else does not?”

Sansa was drinking from her water cup and finished and set it down before she replied. “Because you say so.”

Jon blinked at her. “And that’s enough?”

Sansa smiled at him. “Jon, you don’t have a dishonest bone in your body and you’ve never had a fanciful imagination. If you say there are these creatures out there, they are there.”

He sat back in his chair, staring at her in astonishment as Sansa simply continued to nibble at her dinner. She finally realized he wasn’t eating. “What? What’s wrong?”

“It’s just, well-, your faith in me,” he stammered.

A puzzled frown creased her forehead. “Jon, I know we weren’t that close as children, but I never saw you as a liar nor have I ever called you-“

“No, no, it’s not that. It’s not about how we were towards each other as children. It’s-,” He was never good with is words and he was struggling now. “It’s the faith you have in me. Your belief.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sansa was still confused.

Jon sighed. He tried to explain to her. “As a bastard, it’s hard to get someone, especially lords, to listen to you. I’ve had to prove myself before they would. For you to just simply accept it, it just surprises me.”

“It’s because they’re fools or they don’t know you, Jon, but I know what you mean. As a girl, it’s worse. We’re expected to simply sit and look pretty.” She glanced at the fire. “Look pretty and bear children are what we’re expected to do.”

“Sansa, you’re more than your beauty. They’re fools and they definitely don’t know you,” Jon replied back. “You’re smarter than most of the Lords on my small council, if not all of them.” His voice dipping low and into that range where it rumbles in his chest, a tone that Sansa found as pleasing as his words. She felt a flush of pleasure hearing him say these things about her.

“Thank you, your Grace.” She lifted her water cup in a toast. “To those who are foolish enough to underestimate us. Hopefully they will come around quickly.” Jon chuckled and tapped his horn of ale against her cup.

*/*/*/*/*

“A word, Lord Hand.”

Davos paused in mid-step and turned to see Lord Cerwyn walking towards him.

“Of course, my lord,” Davos replied with a tilt of his head. 

“I wish to speak to you about the offer I made on behalf of my son for Lady Sansa’s hand,” Cerwyn said as they continued to walk down the hallway. “The King has been stubborn in accepting marriage proposals for his sister, but we both know it is best to wed her as quickly as possible. And given her history, she would get few offers better than mine.”

Davos paused and turned to look at Cerwyn. The Hand to the King didn’t particularly like this man. He was a greedy, ambitious git. His son, while handsome and tall, was equally ambitious but did not have the substance to support that ambition. Obviously they were seeking an easy way to fulfill those aspirations with marriage to the King’s sister.

“I am not in charge of the King’s family affairs,” Davos replied.

“But this is more about governance, is it not?” Cerwyn said with a glimmer in his eye that made Davos uneasy. “Let us be frank. The Lady Sansa is spoiled goods, but still valuable in securing support for the king. A king who was a mere bastard a few moons ago. His bannermen are getting restless. The longer the Lady Sansa remains unwed, the more restless they become. And the King would not want men under him to be upset and restless, would he? I understand that did not turn out well for him the last time.”

“Are you threatening treason, Lord Cerwyn?” Davos said coldly, though the man was merely saying aloud thoughts Davos had had himself.

“No, I merely am stating what the situation is,” Cerwyn replied with a gentle shake of his head. He looked closely at Davos. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had the same thoughts? Lady Sansa can be both an asset to the King as well as a liability. You know something must be done with her.”

Davos pressed his lips together. He had thought of all that, but what concerned Davos even more is that he simply didn’t trust Sansa. That thing with the Knights of the Vale and her continued association with Littlefinger worried Davos greatly. Plus, he simply couldn’t trust someone he was unable to read and understand. The Lady of Winterfell was too much of an enigma to Davos. While Jon was completely devoted to her, he could not say that affection was returned.

Affection. That was another concerning thing. He had seen it last night at the feast, the affectionate looks Jon gave his sister that was just a shade improper in Davos’ eyes. The lady was extremely beautiful and maybe that was enough to make a man forget the fact they were brother and sister. If that happened, the Northern lords would desert them completely.

Perhaps it was best to marry Lady Sansa off and send her away from Winterfell. The temptation for Jon would be gone, as well as any threat she could pose.

Davos nodded sharply. “I will speak to the king.”

“And convince him?” Cerwyn asked as he extended his hand.

Davos nodded again and shook the other man’s hand. “Yes. It will be done.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Ser Davos, Lord Glover and Lord Manderly’s men will accompany me when I parlay with the Dragon Queen at Dragonstone,” Jon nodded as he drew the discussion the small council had been having to a close. While the decision that Jon would personally meet with Daenerys Targaryen was made a while back, there was some debate as to who would accompany him. Jon had wanted to leave Davos with Sansa but she had insisted the man accompany Jon as well as sending Brienne and Pod. Jon had accepted Davos, but insisted Sansa’s sworn sword and her squire remain with her. “We ride in a fortnight.” Jon started to rise but Manderly stopped him.

“Your grace, there is one other issue we need to discuss.”

Jon smothered a sigh and sat back down. He glanced to Sansa who sat on his left. Her raised eyebrow indicated she wasn’t aware of what Manderly wanted to talk about.

“What issue is that, Lord Manderly?” Jon asked.

“The Dreadfort,” the man replied. “With the end of the Bolton line, Dreadfort’s fate is uncertain. I would suggest that it be given to someone who has shown support and loyalty to you, my king.”

“Then by right, it should go to House Mormont,” Lady Lyanna piped up in an acidic voice. “Afterall, House Mormont was the only one to stand by House Stark when they fought the Boltons.”

Manderly flushed darkly. “But it is House Manderly that has provided a great many of the supplies and resources to rebuild Winterfell.”

“It was the Knights of the Vale that actually won that battle,” Lord Yohn Royce interjected smoothly. “Perhaps Dreadfort should be given to one of my knights?”

The squabbling continued as Jon looked on in disbelief. Dreadfort was no prize. It was a rundown keep with lands that had some valuable timber on it, but it was also the most Northern settlement and would be the first spot likely to be under attack by the White Walkers should the Wall fall. How could these men and Lady Lyanna be arguing over this with such a threat hanging over their heads?

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sansa turn to Brienne, ever vigilant, standing behind Sansa’s chair. Brienne stepped forward and suddenly pounded her fist on the table, roaring out. “Silence!”

Everyone’s jaw dropped and stared at the lady knight in disbelief. Brienne nodded at Sansa and stepped back behind her lady.

“Thank you, Brienne,” Sansa said in her sweet, quiet voice. “My lords and Lady Lyanna, this arguing over Dreadfort is for naught. There is only one possible person who should have it.”

“And who is that?” Lyanna asked waspishly.

Sansa turned calm eyes onto the child and said smoothly. “Me.”

“You?” Manderly exclaimed as Lyanna snorted in derision. “And why should the Dreadfort go to you, milady?” His less than respectful tone had Jon curling his hands into fists, but he remained silent, allowing Sansa to say her piece.

“As my lords and Lady Lyanna have so frequently pointed out, I was Lady Bolton. Ramsay Bolton predeceased me and by rights, all of his possessions and lands come to me as he had no heirs or any kin left in the Bolton line.” Sansa slowly let her eyes roam over the disbelieving faces of the assembled nobles. “Or am I wrong in my understanding of centuries of inheritance laws?”

Manderly’s mouth opened and closed silently, resembling a gasping fish and Lyanna settled back into her chair with a scowl on her face.

“You do not, Lady Stark,” Jon finally spoke. He couldn’t understand why Sansa would want the Dreadfort, but given the greed and disrespect towards Sansa the others have shown, he was glad to hand it over to her with her most legitimate claim. He rose to his feet and extended his hand to help Sansa to hers. “I believe that concludes our business.” 

The others also got to their feet, a few throwing Sansa dark looks, but Lord Glover passed by her and paused. He looked her in the eye and she saw a small twitch to the corners of his mouth. He inclined his head respectfully and moved past.

“Why do you want the Dreadfort?” Jon asked her when all but Brienne and Davos had left the room.

“Honestly, Jon? I don’t really want it, but I didn’t want to listen to their petty squabbling over something they had no right to,” Sansa replied. She looked down at a map that was sitting on the table. It showed the North with all the houses marked on it. “But it is the most Northern house and whoever is there will likely encounter the Others first should they breach the Wall. If it was in our hands, we can fortify it how we see fit.”

Jon and Davos looked at her in surprise. “What?” Sansa asked. “I do listen to discussions of strategy and battle.”

Jon chuckled. “I can see that I’m leaving the North in more than capable hands.”

A worried look creased Sansa’s face. “You will be careful, won’t you? We don’t know anything about this Daenerys Targaryen and given Father’s role in Robert’s Rebellion, we don’t know how welcoming she will be of Ned Stark’s son.”

A small bloom of warmth filled Jon’s chest hearing her use the word “son” instead of “bastard” when describing his relationship to Ned. He placed a warm hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. Tyrion assures us we will be fine.”

Sansa let out an unladylike snort. “And what protection can he provide should this Dragon Queen decide to set her pets upon you?”

“Sansa, we’ll be fine.”

Her eyes scanned his face but then she shifted her attention to Davos and she said in a severe tone, “Jon won’t allow me to send Brienne with him, so I am entrusting his safety to you, Lord Hand.” 

Davos inclined his head. “A duty I take most seriously and will not fail, milady.”

Sansa nodded and excused herself, Brienne trailing protectively in her wake.

“Your Grace, if I may speak to you for a moment,” Davos inquired when they were alone.

“Of course.” Jon settled against the table and looked inquiringly at the older man. “What’s troubling you?”

“I think it is time you seriously consider the proposals for Lady Sansa’s hand.”

Jon scowled at Davos. “We’ve been through this. I am not forcing Sansa into a marriage. She will not have to endure that ever again, not while I draw breath.”

“She is becoming a liability,” Davos said bluntly. “The other lords and Lady Lyanna view her with suspicion and distrust. That little maneuver today over the Dreadfort has not endeared her to them. The more you keep her around and side with her, the weaker your rule becomes. It is best to marry her off and send her away. Find a good man who will treat her well and she will be happy with that."

Jon got to his feet and stepped close into Davos, anger fairly radiating off of him. “Mind your tongue and place, Davos! My family’s affairs are of no concern of yours or anyone else. I will hear no more about marrying Sansa off or sending her away. Am I clear?”

Davos had never seen Jon this angry before. A strange light seemed to appear in the young man’s eyes and the anger rolled off of him in waves. Davos nodded and Jon stepped away, turning to leave the room. Seaworth found it within him to try one last thing. 

“She is your sister. You cannot have her. Keeping her here only hurts everyone, most of all you and I’m not talking about your reign, Jon.”

Jon paused in at the door of the room. Without turning around, he bit off, “We’ll speak no more about this.” He yanked open the door and slammed it after him, the noise reverberating in the room long after.

*/*/*/*/*

“Lady Stark!”

Sansa turned and Brienne’s hand on her sword tightened as a young man came hurrying down the hall towards them. It was Rowan, Lord Cerwyn’s son.

“Ser Rowan,” Sansa greeted him with an inclination of her head with hands folded before her.

Rowan laughed, a singularly unpleasant sound Sansa thought. “No need for such formality, milady.”

Sansa raised her eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Ser Rowan, I don’t understand.”

“Come, Sansa,” Rowan said in an irritatingly ingratiating manner, reaching out to touch her hand.

Sansa flinched back as Brienne moved between the two.

“Oh come!” Rowan said, mildly annoyed. “Sansa, we are to be married! Surely I can hold your hand?”

Sansa gaped at him. “I’m sorry, Ser Rowan, but I do not know what you are talking about.”

It was Rowan’s turn to be confused. “My father said he had arranged it with the King. We are to be married.” He saw the expression on her face and shuffled on his feet. “I-, I see the King has not yet spoken to you. But do understand, milady, you will want for nothing when we are married and I will care for you in the best possible way.”

Sansa didn’t register what Rowan was saying to her nor did she see the concerned look Brienne was giving her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. A cold numbness filled her. Abruptly, she turned on her heel and began to march away, ignoring Rowan’s apologies and Brienne’s questions of concern.

The numbness fell away and it was replaced by cold fury. Jon had taken credit for the battle with Ramsay. He had taken a crown that should be hers. And now he was disposing of her by wedding her off like all the men before him had. All his pretty words and promises were nothing but lies. How foolish she had been to believe and trust him!

Her fury blinded her and she ran into the solid wall of another person. Hands came out to steady her and she saw the object of her anger before her.

“Sansa?” Jon asked in concern. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t see the slap coming but the pain of her hit paled in comparison to what she said next.

“Bastard!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel I have to defend Davos a little. Davos is all about protecting Jon and right now, he sees Sansa as a threat in more ways than one. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he wants her where she won't cause any trouble, in his mind. He also has the medieval mentality of women should be married off and she will make a powerful alliance to, again, benefit Jon. By are standards, yeah, dick-ish, but I think he's behaving naturally given the circumstances. And the men aren't the only ones who are judgmental about Sansa. I know people like her, but I frankly do not care for Lyanna Mormont and I do think she would be as sneeringly judgmental of Sansa as the men are. Hence, how she's portrayed in this fic, for now. And I have to say, all this is for now, because as Sansa noted in part 2, it's up to her to win them over. It's a matter of will she and how.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon’s short discussion with Davos left him annoyed and flustered. Had he been that obvious in his growing affection for Sansa? So obvious that his Hand believed he was jeopardizing his reign? Even if so, Jon would never force Sansa to do what she did not want to do and that included being married off to some lord or sending her away from Winterfell. 

He was brought out of his musings when someone collided into him as he rounded a corner. Automatically, his hands went out to steady the other person and he knew immediately it was Sansa, so familiar he was with her scent. He looked into her face and saw how pale and distraught she was and alarm immediately filled him.

“Sansa?” he asked worriedly, “What’s wrong?”

Her slap resounded loudly through the hallway and he stared at her in shock, but the pain of the hit paled in comparison to what she said next.

“Bastard!” she screamed at him.

“Sansa?” he croaked out.

“You bastard! You’re just like the rest of them! You sell me to get what you want! Tell me, Jon, what am I worth now? What did Cerwyn offer you? How long did it take the King of the North to whore out his sister?”

Her words rained on him like small daggers even as his mind struggled to keep pace with them. “Cerwyn? What? Sansa-, how did you even know-“

It was the wrong thing to begin with and Jon watched as Sansa glared at him with increased ferocity. “Were you hoping I would be dragged to the Godswoods before I realized what was happening?” she sneered at him. “Ser Rowan upset your plans by trying to take liberties already. Or did you say it was okay before we were wed? Did you offer to allow him to sample the good since they were damaged already?”

Jon flushed at her words, anger boiling within him over a multitude of things, that she would think that he would do any of those things, that she thought so little of herself and him and that Rowan dared to approach her in any way. “Sansa, I didn’t make any arrangements with Cerwyn.”

“That’s not what they think,” she spat out. Some of the anger seemed to go out of her and she appeared to shrink before his eyes. “I thought you were different, Jon,” she said sadly. “I thought for once, I could trust someone, a man, after all I’ve been through.”

He moved towards her, his heart breaking as he reached out to touch her. “Sansa, you can trust me-“

She moved a step back, out of his reach, shaking her head. “No, you’re just like the rest of them. Willing to sell me off.” She glared at him, the anger back in her eyes. “I won’t be sold to the highest bidder, Jon. Never again, not by you or anyone.” She spun away from him and started to run to her chambers. Jon made to follow when he was roughly yanked back by a strong arm.

Jon spun around to glare at the other person and found himself facing an angry Brienne. “Lady Stark wishes to be left alone,” the tall blonde woman told him icily as she moved to block his path.

“I need to talk to her! Stand aside!” Jon ordered. “Your king commands you!”

Brienne looked at him unfazed. “I serve no king. I only serve the Lady of Winterfell and she has made her wishes clear. Leave her be.” Brienne turned at that point and followed Sansa.

Jon let out an angry breath. He knew who he needed to speak to regarding this mess.

*/*/*/*/*

“You did what?” Jon roared at Davos as the older man calmly explained his deal with Lord Cerwyn. “You had no right!”

“As your Hand, I did,” Davos countered. “It was done for the good of your reign, your Grace.”

“Sansa is my family and any decisions regarding my family are left to me, not my Hand!” Jon snarled.

“Not when she is a valuable asset to you.”

“Stop talking about her like she’s chattel! That is not what Sansa is,” Jon snapped back. 

“I have told you repeatedly,” Davos continued. “She has become a liability to you. The lords either want to fight over her hand or suspect her of plotting against you. And after what happened in the battle with the Boltons, when she kept the information regarding to the Knights of the Vale to herself, you yourself no longer trust her.”

“I trust her,” Jon replied sullenly.

“Really?” countered Davos. “Then why haven’t you told her that you will consider marrying Daenerys Targaryen to secure an alliance?”

Jon glared at Davos. The idea to marry the Dragon Queen was only something that he, Davos and Glover were aware of, having been suggested by the powerful lord as one way to secure the Dragon Queen’s assistance in the upcoming battle. But Jon had not spoken to Sansa about it. He had no doubt that Sansa had considered that one approach they could take, but she herself had not mentioned it. Jon was uncertain what her reaction would be. Jon himself was not enthused about the idea.

“It is only a possibility,” Jon bit out. “I saw no reason to bring up something that may very well not occur.”

“You’re letting your…,” Davos paused a moment and Jon gave him a piercing stare, “Fondness for your sister cloud your judgment. I don’t dispute that she’s been through much and that has made you very protective of her. But you will not be able to protect her if you are deposed.”

“I don’t give a damn about this bloody crown,” Jon snarled. “I’ll not be one of those men who have abused her since she was a child. Tell the Cerwyn’s they will not be getting Sansa’s hand in marriage.”

“I will not,” Davos said firmly. “We need the Cerwyn’s and a broken betrothal would cause them to pull their support which would encourage others who are looking for an excuse to do so. Jon, you do not have the full support of the North!”

“If you won’t withdraw, I will,” Jon snarled. He stepped close to Davos. “Interfere in my relationship with Sansa again, do anything to harm her, and I’ll make sure you lose more than just a few fingers.” He spun on his heel and stalked off as Davos sank nervously down into a chair, wiping his brow.

*/*/*/*/*

Brienne stood sentinel outside of Sansa’s chamber and gave every indication she was not going to let Jon pass. 

“I need to speak to my sister,” Jon told her.

Brienne simply raised an eyebrow. “The Lady wishes not to be disturbed.”

Jon let out a breath. “Fine. We’ll do this here.” He raised his voice to call loudly enough for her to hear on the other side of the door. “Sansa? Sansa? It’s Jon. I want you to know, I had no idea about the Cerwyns. It was something Davos had done on his own without my knowledge or approval. I’ve told him to tell the Cerwyns you will not be marrying Rowan. I’m sorry you were subjected to this, Sansa, but please know, my promise to you still holds, I will not marry you to anyone unless you wish it, nor will I send you from our home. You have my word.” He paused, hoping for a response. When a few seconds passed and there was no sound from the other side of the door, Jon felt his shoulders slump slightly and he began to turn away.

He stopped when he heard a bolt being pulled back and Sansa’s chamber door swung open. “Jon?”

He turned eagerly to look at her and then frowned in dismay at her red-rimmed, sad eyes. “Sansa,” he gasped as he moved forward to pull her into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, muffled from where she was pressed into his shoulder. “I’m sorry I hit you and for calling you, a, a…”

“It’s okay, sweetling,” he murmured. “You didn’t know.”

“It sounded like none of us did,” she replied as she pulled back slightly. Jon was confused by the sad look on her face.

“Hey, I’m not mad, no need to still be upset,” he said as he cupped her chin with one hand to tilt her face up.

Tears filled her eyes. “Oh Jon, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” 

“You can’t withdraw the proposal. I’ll have to go through with marrying Rowan!”

“No,” Jon replied firmly. “No you don’t. I won’t allow it.”

“And lose the support of the Cerwyns and how many others? You can’t be shown as a fickle king who breaks his promises!”

“It was Davos-“

“He’s your Hand! His word is yours!” Sansa looked at him miserably. “Your Davos has neatly boxed me in! He’s been trying to get rid of me ever since we took back Winterfell.”

“Sansa, that’s not tru-,” his words trailed off as she stared at him pointedly. Jon sighed. “It doesn’t matter if Cerwyn or others pull their support. I’m not forcing you to marry someone you don’t want to. That you barely know!”

Sansa stepped away from him and straightened her back. “And I won’t be the reason you lose your crown. I’ll marry him.”

“Sansa, no-“

“Good night, Jon,” she said quietly as she went back into her room and closed her door. 

Jon stared at the shut door for a moment before he called out. “Sansa? Sansa! I will find a way out of this! You will not marry Ser Rowan!” There was no reply from the other side and Jon sighed. He met the sympathetic gaze of Brienne.

“What do you intend to do, your Grace?” the tall woman asked.

Jon sighed. “I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if I wasn't clear in the previous chapter, but Jon had nothing to do with the deal with the Cerwyns. That was all on Davos, but as Jon's hand, he can make deals for Jon that may be difficult to get out of. And in fairness to Davos, while we all think he's a jerk, I don't think his manner of thinking is too outside the norm for that time among men.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I put some people out of their misery earlier than planned.

Most of the visiting Lords were at the morning meal as people gathered to break their fast. Sansa was one of the last one to arrive, her entrance setting off a chain reaction of men rising to their feet and bowing their heads as she made her way across the room to the head table and her seat next to Jon. Jon did not miss the dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, normally opalescent and warm, looking white and drawn, and the tight lines around her lips, all of which spoke to a sleepless and troubled night.

He also did not miss the smirk Lord Cerwyn gave nor the nervous jerk and darting eyes of his son’s, Rowan, head as she passed them. Jon’s hand curled into a fist as he watched the old Lord’s calculating eyes watching his sister, already assessing the power and leverage he would obtain with her married to his son.

Not while Jon lived.

As Sansa quietly took her seat he watched as she numbly picked up her spoon and began to stir the porridge the servant had placed in front of her. She had simply nodded at him in greeting, not saying a word. Jon looked at her profile, and felt his heart squeeze tight. All vitality and light seemed to have gone out of her and she was a mere shadow of the woman he knew. Was this how she was at Kings Landing, when she was trying to survive? Did she retreat into herself back there like she has done now because she feels her fate was out of her hands and yet again, she had been unwillingly sold to another? 

It had to stop. Jon had sworn to protect her and if he could not even protect her from the machinations of his own court, he was of no use to her or anyone.

The loud scraping his chair made as he stood abruptly up silenced the low pitched conversations in the Great Hall. Everyone looked expectantly at him, knowing their king was not one prone to idle speeches so what he had to say must be of great importance. Even Sansa glanced up at him, though her gaze was still dull and tired.

“My lords and ladies,” Jon called out in a loud voice. “I would beg your indulgence for a few moments. We know there is no fairer flower, true and good as my sister, Sansa. Many have wished for and sought her hand in marriage.” There was a rustling in the crowd as people leaned forward, but Jon was only concerned with the woman next to him who he could feel withdrawing the more he talked. “Lord Cerwyn has proposed a betrothal between his son, Rowan, and our fair winter rose, Sansa, that my hand, Lord Davos has accepted.”

Loud cries erupted in the room, not all of them pleased, but Jon could see the Cerwyns’ smug smirks. Jon glanced over at Davos who had enough grace to look abashed. “However!” Jon boomed out, silencing the crowd. He could see Lord Cerwyn’s head swivel sharply towards him. “What Lord Davos failed to convey is that I will allow no man to marry my sister unless I am completely satisfied that he will be true, be good, be loyal, be gentle, and above all be able to protect her from all threats.” Silence greeted him as Jon moved from behind the table and he made his way steadily, almost menacingly towards the Cerwyns. He stopped before Ser Rowan. “And the only way I can be assured that the man who marries my sister can protect her better than I, is for that man to beat me in single combat.” He grinned wolfishly at Rowan and his voice came out in a dark growl. “Come, ser, let us fight.”

Since retaking Winterfell, Jon had trained regularly with all able bodied men and anyone who wanted to try to best their King and the rumored greatest swordsman in all of Westeros. It allowed Jon to not only train them for the fight ahead with the Others, but also to gain a measure of what each man was capable. No one had come close to being able to beat Jon with the exception of Brienne and one other knight from the Vale, Ser Bryan. Without any lands or great house behind him, Jon knew Ser Bryan would not seek Sansa’s hand in marriage, though the King had caught the other man glancing at Sansa in admiration more than once. Requiring the man who would wed his sister to beat him in single combat would assure Sansa’s security here at Winterfell unless she indicated otherwise.

Rowan nervously looked at his father. Everyone knew he was a mediocre fighter at best. The times Jon had sparred with him, the former Lord Commander had disarmed and bested him in less than minute. There was no way he would be able to beat Jon.

“Your Grace,” Lord Cerwyn puffed out. “Surely you cannot be serious?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “And why would I not be? Do you not regard Lady Stark as the fairest, most precious jewel of the North?”

“Uh, well, yes, of course-“ Cerwyn huffed out, reddening in irritation.

“Then I would be a fool to let her go to someone who cannot prove that they can protect her better than she can be protected here, at Winterfell. By me.” He stepped closer to Cerwyn, his voice dropping into a soft tone that had a thread of cold steel running through it. “My sister has been through much, my lord, and many have failed to protect her. I will not make such a mistake and I will make certain the man she marries will not either.” He spun back from the Cerwyns and called out to one of the guards. “Guards! One of you, fetch two practice swords! We will settle this here.”

A murmur of excitement spread throughout the Great Hall, some surprised by the turn of events and others amused, knowing that the only possible ending to this farce would be Rowan Cerwyn’s humiliating defeat. One person not amused was Sansa who’s furrowed brow and small frown should have caused Jon some anxiety, but he was beyond caring. He was too eager to deliver a lesson or two to the prideful Cerwyns.

A guard handed Jon and a reluctant Rowan a practice sword each. Jon swung his through the air a few times to get the feel of its weight and balance. Rowan simply stood there, with the sword hanging limply in his arm, sending a beseeching look to his father who scowled back at him. “Man up, boy!” Lord Cerwyn hissed back at his son.

“Are you ready, Ser Rowan?” Jon’s voice boomed out, startling the other man.

Rowan swallowed and then straightened his shoulders. His lips thinned into a grim line and he nodded. In his mind, perhaps this was all for show and King Jon was merely doing this to paint his future family in a good light. Perhaps he will still win and he would be married to the beautiful Lady Stark.

The first strike of the swords against each other quickly disabused that theory. Rowan was only a few years younger than Jon, in fact, just a year older than Sansa. He had also not seen much battle, having spent his time in training yards, which in reality, nowhere near equaled the time Jon would spend training. There was no way he could match Jon’s skill, nor the strength the King of the North had built up in his body from the battles he had fought and the hours he would devote to in his training. Rowan had struck first with a hit that Jon easily blocked. Rowan, with much less skill and thought, tried to rain a flurry of blows upon Jon who simply blocked them with little effort or evaded them with skillful movement of his feet. Less than thirty seconds in, Rowan was breathing heavily, having expended much of his energy in futile efforts. It took less than ten seconds then for Jon to disarm Rowan and with a simple swipe at his legs, send Rowan buckling to his knees.

The audience was too polite to laugh aloud, but the Cerwyns could see the amused smirks on some faces. Jon wasn’t even breathing heavily as Rowan knelt on the ground, panting rapidly. Not smiling were Sansa, Davos and Jon himself. The King handed his sword to a guard who scurried forward to retrieve the weapons. 

“A good effort, Ser,” Jon said as he started to turn away, beginning to unfasten one glove as he spoke. “But there will be no wedding.”

“You should have been glad we offered to take your whore of a sister off your hands! No one would want such a creature for a wife! We’ve heard what Ramsey did to her and if you think any man would want such a broken-“ Rowan began to spat out.

His words were cut off by a blow to his jaw as Jon spun around so fast and hit him that he was merely a blur. Jon’s hand curled around the younger man’s throat and began to squeeze as he looked wildly into Rowan’s eyes. Vaguely he heard Sansa crying out his name.

“Such talk is treason!” Jon roared as the Hall went deathly silent and faces paled not only at Rowan’s words, but at the fury their King was exhibiting. “I should cut your tongue out and hang you from the towers of Winterfell you insolent-“

“Your Majesty,” Lord Cerwyn pleaded as he stumbled forward, almost falling to his knees. “I beg of you! My son is young and foolish, he did not mean-“

“Did he not, Lord Cerwyn?” Jon spat out. “I heard him quite clearly insult a member of the royal family. A member of my family. I will not tolerate it and I question the loyalty of such a house that would think, not the least to say in my hearing such slanderous, treasonous words.”

Cerwyn paled and gulped audibly. What Rowan had said was something that many of the Northern families have said. In private. To speak it within the hearing of the royal family went beyond a breach of protocol, it could be considered treason. It would paint your house as being disloyal at best. King Jon would be justified in seizing Cerwyn’s lands and valuables for such words.

“Quite right your grace,” a smooth, Southern voice said from Jon’s right. The King turned his head and he saw Ser Bryan standing next to him, looking extremely bored, but his hand was resting casually on the hilt of his sword. “Not only was it treasonous, but it was unworthy of a honorable man to even think such things about a woman as good and brave as Lady Stark. It shows he is no true man and most definitely not worthy of the North’s greatest jewel. And as such, it must be a great and generous King who will spare such a cur and his family from any further punishment for such an act. But it serves as a warning to all others that such talk, such incidents in the future will have a much different outcome. Our King will not be as generous in the future.” Bryan tilted his eyes downward and said in a voice so low that only Jon heard him. “You are distressing Lady Stark.”

Jon swiveled his head to look at the dais where Sansa sat. Their eyes locked, blue on brown and with the slightest shake of her head, Jon knew that Bryan was right. Sansa did not want Jon to take Rowan’s head for whatever reason. 

With a look of disgust and a not so gentle toss, Jon threw Rowan down to the ground where his head bounced slightly as it smacked sharply against the stone floor. “Get out of my sight. The Cerwyns are to leave Winterfell immediately after paying a tax of 500 gold dragons.”

“Your Majesty!” Cerwyn began to sputter at the cost. 

“One thousand gold dragons,” Jon said in a low dangerous voice, daring Cerwyn to say another word that could possibly displease him.

Cerwyn gulped and nodded stiffly. “A trifling amount after such a breach by us, your grace.”

“And an apology, now, to Lady Stark,” Jon growled out. He glared at Rowan. “Both of you.”

Cerwyn nudged his son to his feet. They shuffled forward to the dais and knelt before Sansa. “Our apologies, Lady Stark, for my son’s impetuous and foolish words. He is young and stupid and I can only say the heat of the battle made him act and speak foolishly.” He sharply elbowed his son.

“Yes, Lady Stark,” Rowan mumbled. “I apologize for my foolish words. I have no excuse for what I said and to cast such aspersions upon you. I hope you can forgive me, milady.”

The silence in the Hall was deafening. What Rowan had said wasn’t anything that more than half of the people in the Hall hadn’t though or said in private themselves. However, to have said it to the Starks’ faces and the extreme reaction of the King, it made them all think twice of their future actions, especially given the punishment: a thousand gold dragons was not a small sum and what essentially was banishment from Winterfell.

Now all eyes were on Sansa. One word from her and the Cerwyns could face a much worse punishment. They could all see that King Jon was only waiting for some direction from her and he would gladly do it. It was Sansa’s first public test and she would need to make the right decision. Choose wrong and they would look even more unfavorably upon her as a scheming bitch with too much influence over her brother and Jon’s rule would be weakened. Too generous and she would be dismissed as a weak woman, not worthy of any respect or consideration.

“Thank you, Lord Cerwyn for your apology.” Sansa paused and took a deep breath. “The North has suffered much under the Boltons. I know that was well as anyone. Experienced the cruelty of the Boltons first hand.” Many in the Hall had the grace to bow their heads in shame and embarrassment at this last statement. “However, a new era is upon us. An era where there is a just and wise king to lead us. The decisions King Jon makes are always in the best interest of the North, all of the North, because he is a king who will always think of his people first. I accept your apology, Lord Cerwyn, but I also stand by my brother’s decisions.” She tilted her head proudly and in voice that rang through the Great Hall declared, “And your generous donation will be used to further fortify our defenses against the great enemy we face. Know Lord Cerwyn that your gold will be used to help save the North from the Others who wish to take all we hold dear.” She could see many heads nodding in approval at her words.

“Thank you for your kind understanding, milady,” Lord Cerwyn mumbled as he bowed his head. He smacked Rowan on the back of the young man’s head as he stood there stupidly. “Yes, milady,” Rowan muttered.

“Now go,” Jon growled out. He spun on his heel and stalked out of the Great Hall, not sparing anyone else a glance. Davos made to follow him, but Sansa halted his progress with a hand on his arm.

“A word in private, Lord Hand,” she said coolly. Davos looked into her expressionless face and nodded, following her out of the Great Hall and into a small meeting room.


	8. Chapter 8

After Davos closed the door behind them, Sansa turned to face him, her head held high.

“You attempted to sell me off,” she stated bluntly. “You’re no better than a flesh peddler!”

“I tried to arrange a good marriage for you, milady,” Davos bristled. 

“Without either my or Jon’s consent. Why? That’s what I want to know. Why did you do it?”

“Jon loves you,” Davos blurted out.

He watched as Sansa’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Of course he loves me,” she snapped. “And I love him. We are kin. He is my brother. What does that have to do with you going behind both our backs and arranging a marriage for me?”

Davos blinked as he stared at Sansa. Up to this point, he thought Sansa had been using Jon’s attraction to her to manipulate and influence him. But he could see her confusion was genuine. Sansa had no inkling of the impact she had on the king and merely thought of their relationship as familial.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Davos rumbled slowly out. “I only sought to protect the king.”

“From me?” Sansa asked in disbelief. Her eyes narrowed dangerously and she took a step towards the man. “You think Jon needs protection from me?”

“I think King Jon would do anything for you, Lady Stark, even if it was to his detriment,” Davos replied truthfully.

Sansa took a step back and contemplated his words. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“I don’t trust you. Not after what happened with the Knights of the Vale. Many men died.”

Sansa regarded him coolly and then said, “And what do you think you and Jon would have done had I told you about the Vale forces, if either of you bothered listening to me at all? Would Jon have accepted them knowing about Baelish and how he sold me to the Boltons?”

“No, but if we knew they were on their way, we could have rethought out strategy.”

“How? I didn’t send the letter to Baelish until we were camped on Bolton’s doorstep. A site YOU decided upon. If I told you I had sent the letter then, what other plans would you have come up with?”

“We could have rethought our configuration, where troops were stationed,” Davos sputtered.

“I had no idea when the Vale forces would appear or if they would. Baelish never wrote back to me.”

“Though you suspected they were near.”

“Yes, but neither you nor Jon wanted to wait to engage Ramsey no matter how I argued for more men.”

“But if we had known-“

“You think Ramsay Bolton would have delayed attacking? ‘I’m sorry, Ramsay, all of our men aren’t here yet. No idea when they will appear but be a good sport and hold off until they arrive, hmmm?’” Sansa’s voice was filled with mocking disbelief and Davos could feel his face redden. She was right. Even if they had known about the Vale forces, none of them, not even Sansa, knew exactly when they would arrive. That was one bit of information Littlefinger kept to himself for leverage.

“And had I said anything, what reaction do you think Jon would have had? You think Jon would have accepted that help? Do you think Ramsay wouldn’t have used Rickon to lure Jon out? That Jon wouldn’t have rushed out to try to save him, forcing our troops to move prematurely?”

Davos swallowed his next words. It was true. Had Sansa told them earlier about Baelish’s offer, Jon would likely have refused their help. Had she told them after they were already camped, planning the war against Bolton, it would have been useless. Ramsay knew or would find out quickly that they were camped on his doorstep and what happened to Stannis could have happened to them. They had to engage him quickly. And Ramsey likely still would have used Rickon to draw Jon out who would have rushed into try to save his little brother. The only thing different would have been them losing the advantage of surprise that the Vale knights provided.

“And it would have all been for naught anyway,” Sansa continued softly. “Because Ramsay would have still used Rickon to lure Jon out and Jon would have gone. Our men would have gone after Jon and we would have lost even greater numbers and possibly the war.” She turned to go. “So Lord Hand, before you condemn me for what I did, consider the fact that there were no other choices and neither you nor Jon were willing to listen to me at any point along the way.” She paused at the door. “One more thing. Do something like this again, I will make sure you regret it. Not all of the hounds were killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who sees Sansa all soft and forgiving, sorry, I don't. Not that I think she'll be cruel, but she'll protect herself and others she cares about if she has to.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa made her way down the hall in search of Jon. She was worried about him. The anger he had displayed when Rowan had insulted her was close to what she saw when he nearly killed Ramsey with his bare hands. While she could care less for those other men, she worried over the impact on Jon. She had never seen that type of rage in him. Sansa wondered was it something he had brought back when the Red Priestess resurrected him and if it was, did it frighten Jon? She had to make sure he was alright.

“Lady Stark.”

She paused as a man crossed her path from another hallway. He stopped and bowed his head respectfully allowing her to pass, but Sansa halted her steps.

“Ser Bryan,” she greeted him. “I want to thank you for assisting the King today with that unfortunate incident in the Great Hall.”

The knight inclined his head, accepting her gratitude. “If I may be so bold, milady, but Ser Rowan deserved worse.”

“I could care less about Rowan Cerwyn. I’m not sure what you said to King Jon, but it was effective enough to stay his hand. It may not have been useful for him to go much further.”

“Rowan is a petulant, inept swain whose fighting prowess would be overwhelmed by a child of five,” Bryan snorted. “A few knocks can only improve him.”

Sansa gave him a wan smile. “Nonetheless, the Cerwyns are an old and powerful Northern family. The King cannot be seen doing too much damage to their heir.”

“Gods save the Cerwyns if they’re relying on that for their future,” sighed Bryan.

Sansa didn’t quite laugh but her smile brightened slightly and she saw Bryan look at her in admiration. She didn’t know much about the knight other than he came with the Vale forces Littlefinger brought with him, and that alone made Sansa wary of the knight. He was a good fighter if Jon’s few comments about his sparring with Bryan were any indication. Bryan was tall, taller than she, and his lean frame was deceptive in its strength and quickness. Sansa had heard that he was from a minor Vale house and he did have a connection to the North via his mother.

“Your mother is from the North, I believe,” Sansa said as they started walking down the hall and out of the castle into the yard. “What house is she with?”

“Was, milady. She passed when I was ten. And she was not with any great house. My mother was the daughter of a fabric merchant. My father was a third son who fell in love with her on his travels in the North. As the third son, there wasn’t much concern with who he married and her father was quite well off.” He gave Sansa a look. “So, I’m simply the humble son of a third son and a tradesman’s daughter.”

“There’s no shame that I can see in any of that,” Sansa replied. “I find that some of the finest people are from the humblest of families.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed how much care you give to the small folk,” Bryan replied in frank admiration.

Sansa let out a deep breath. “There was a time when they were the only ones concerned about my welfare.” Her eyes took on a troubled look and he watched as she turned inward to look at some memory. Bryan almost reached out a hand to comfort her, but stopped himself in time.

“And you are repaying them now with your kindness,” Bryan said softly. “And they love and appreciate you for it.”

Sansa came to herself and she gave him a wry smile. “Do they? I sometimes wonder if they see me like the Cerwyns do, a broken, soiled thing.”

Anger flared up in Bryan and a hard look came over his face. “Let any man say that in my presence and they will regret it!” he snarled.

Sansa blinked at him, surprised by his vociferous words. She gave him an uncertain look. “Thank you, Ser Bryan,” she said carefully. “If you will excuse me, I need to attend to some duties.”

The knight recalled himself and the anger seeped out of his face back to the bland, slightly bored look Sansa was more familiar with. “Of course, milady. Please let me know if I can be of any service.” He bowed as Sansa nodded her head and moved swiftly away. 

As Bryan looked after her departing figure, he was unaware that above them on a balcony Jon had watched their exchange with a cold, hard look on his face.

*/*/*/*/*

Sansa was still looking for Jon when she came across Littlefinger. She was hoping she could sweep past the odious little man with a curt nod, but he blocked her path.

“A word, Lady Stark?” he said in oily politeness.

She smothered a sigh. “Yes, Lord Baelish?”

“Your half-brother was most impressive today, milady. Fighting for your honor and ensuring prospective grooms and their families think twice before approaching the king as they would need to beat him in hand-to-hand combat. Quite clever. I didn’t think the bastard had the brains for a scheme like that.”

Sansa glared at the man. “Careful, Lord Baelish, he is still your king. The Vale swore their allegiance to him. Jon is very smart. He was chosen Lord Commander by the Watch.”

“And they killed him, if you can believe the stories,” Baelish waved a dismissive hand. “But it is interesting how protective he is of you, sweetling.”

She hated the sound of any endearment falling from his lips and directed towards her. It seemed to pervert the word. Sansa raised her tilted her chin haughtily and replied in a cold tone, “It’s because he wants to ensure I’m not sold off to another monster, as I was last time.” She glared pointedly at the man.

Baelish had the grace to look ashamed for a moment, but it was only for a moment. “Understandable, but there’s something else there, Sansa. Something that you would be wise to exploit.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked in irritation.

“Oh, my dear, do you not see how he stares at you, looks at you longingly?” Baelish stepped closer and she had to force herself not to step back. “He is but a man, my dear, and like all men, they covet a beautiful woman. I’ve seen that look before and it is a man who lusts for another.”

Sansa does step back this time, in shock. “Mind your tongue! He is my brother!”

“Half-brother, and a bastard, with a bastard’s lust,” Petyr oozed. His fingers reached out to grab a lock of her hair and rub it between his fingers. “And what man can resist your considerable charms? Use it, Sansa. Use it to get what is rightly yours.”

A noise at the end of the hall forced him to step back. A moment later a servant hurriedly rounded a corner. She bobbed respectfully to Sansa and Petyr before hurrying off to her duties.

Sansa turned cool eyes towards Baelish and her voice betrayed none of the confusing thoughts and feelings fluttering within her. “Thank you for your insights, Lord Baelish. If you will excuse me?” As he inclined his head, she swept past him, her thoughts a jumble in her head.

_Was this what Davos was trying to say? Did Jon look at me more than just brotherly love? No, it can’t be. This is Jon, the most honorable, decent man alive! Littlefinger is simply trying to poison things between us._

But what about Davos? Did Littlefinger pour the same poison in the Hand’s ear as he just tried to do now?

Though she was confused by these events and tried to puzzle out what they meant, one thing Sansa realized she did not feel when thinking about the possibility that Jon may be in love with her:

Upset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be upfront: Sansa needed a friend, hence Ser Bryan. By the way, this was written before S7 Ep 2 aired.


	10. Chapter 10

Jon had made himself scarce for the rest of the day and after a while, Sansa gave up trying to hunt him down, believing he would, when ready, come to her instead. It happened later that evening after dinner. She had dined in her room again, and she sat sewing by the fireplace. At the soft knock on her door, she bade her visitor to enter and Jon shuffled in.

Sansa welcomed him with a warm smile and called him over to her. As he sat opposite her in the other chair she examined his face closely. He looked tired, but no longer wore the angry scowl he did that morning. However, there was something in his face, something that went beyond his usual solemn expression, almost something akin to…sadness.

“Jon?” she began tentatively. “Are you alright?”

The corners of his mouth lifted up slightly, but his eyes, usually lit up with warmth when he looked at her, were simply flat. “It’s been a long day.”

“I looked for you after what happened with the Cerwyns, but I couldn’t find you. What have you been doing?”

“’Speaking with Davos, Manderly and Glover and deciding what men I’ll be taking with me when I go treat with the Dragon Queen in three days.”

Sansa became very still and she stared at Jon a moment before speaking. “You’re leaving in three days? When was this decided?”

“We’ve been talking about this for a while, Sansa.”

“But we agreed you would be leaving in a fortnight. Why have you decided to leave so early?” Sansa queried. “Why wasn’t I consulted in this decision?”

Jon regarded her solemnly. “As King, I do not need to consult my sister.”

Sansa felt as though she had been slapped. She rose abruptly and flung aside her sewing. “Because it’s always gone so well when you haven’t consulted me?” She began to pace the room with agitated steps.

“This is foolishness, Jon! You don’t know if you can trust this woman and the reports she has an army of twenty thousand and three dragons! We need more information about her. She could kill you in an instant. You’re too valuable to send. Let Davos handle it!”

“I will not be a king who hides behind his people,” Jon shot back. 

“No, just a king who runs when beckoned,” Sansa sneered. Jon was being a fool and unnecessarily risking his life by going to see this woman who at this point was queen of nothing. He was going to get himself killed. And then she would be alone again. Sansa did not want to ever be alone in the world again, not after she had found Jon. 

“Our father fought in the rebellion against her family, the one that sent her into exile. Do you think that woman will welcome you with open arms?”

“Tyrion is with her and promises no harm will fall to me or our men.”

“Oh, and you trust him?” Sansa scoffed.

“Well, he is kin to us through his marriage to you,” Jon shot back and instantly regretted as soon as the words left his mouth.

Sansa stilled and her face paled. A cold, hard look came over her face, the same look she wore when the Northern lords would bring up her history with the Lannisters and the Boltons. Jon never thought she would ever direct that look at him. It reminded him too much of her lady mother.

“Sansa-,” he began as he stood from his chair and tried to approach her.

Sansa stepped out of his reach and he let his hand fall. 

“I find myself suddenly weary, your Grace. If you will excuse me, I think I shall retire.” Each word was bit off by cold formality and Jon could feel hot shame fill him.

“Sansa,” he pleaded.

“Good night, your Grace. I’m sure whatever decision you make is the correct one. Afterall, what more can a poor, stupid girl like myself offer as far as advice.”

“Sansa!” he was begging at this point.

But she was hearing none of it, turning away from him and walking towards the window to stare out into the cold, dark night.

Jon stared at her back for a moment before he resigned himself to defeat and he left her room, closing the door quietly after him.


End file.
